


A Christmas present for a man who has everything money can buy

by BluebellBlossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Cuteness on Christmas morning, Domestic, Emotional Jim, Established Relationship, M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, considerate Sherlock, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:59:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5494685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluebellBlossom/pseuds/BluebellBlossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Outside the bedroom window the world is still silent and wrapped in solid darkness. Sherlock is shaking Jim by the shoulder, trying to bring him out of his deep sleep.</p><p>His low voice has an impatient ring to it.</p><p>“Jim, it’s Christmas morning. I’ve prepared a present for you, and if you don’t get up right now it will be spoiled.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Christmas present for a man who has everything money can buy

O~O~O~O~O

 

Outside the bedroom window the world is still silent and wrapped in solid darkness. Sherlock is shaking Jim by the shoulder, trying to bring him out of his deep sleep.

 

His low voice has an impatient ring to it. “Wake up, Jim. Open your eyes. Come on now, it’s morning.”

 

The red digits on the alarm clock on the bedstand flash 04:45, and Jim grunts as he raises his head and looks at it. Still sleep ridden, he simultaneously tries to brush off Sherlock’s insistent hand and pull the covers over his head.

 

“Lay off, Sherlock, it’s still the middle of the night. Go back to sleep, or at least let me sleep,” he mumbles gruffly. A twinge of warmth flickers inside Sherlock’s chest at the sound of Jim’s sleepy voice and the way he turns on his stomach, trying to go back to sleep.

 

Sharing his bed with Jim is new, and it still amazes Sherlock to observe how the most natural of human conditions, sleeping, turns even a dangerous criminal into a vulnerable human being with appaling survival instincts. Though they have reached a point of complete understanding that the bed they share is a safe haven, they both know that the fate of their lives are in the hands of the other man.

 

In Sherlock's case, his life is tied to Jim in quite the literal sense. He is well aware that if he is to go before his time, it will likely be in the process of trying to unravel one of Jim's schemes, in one of their inpredictable games of cat and mouse. Somehow, it does not scare him as much as the alternative, which is keeping his distance. He realizes that this easy acceptance of his own possible death means he may no longer be as detatched and rational as his line of work demands. These past months spent with Jim has changed him. To what extent, and if that is even something he is willing to accept, remains to be seen.

 

He shakes his head to clear his mind. For now, he needs to focus on more pressing concerns. The challenge of rousing a sleeping criminal that is curled up in a fetal position in his bed.

 

“Jim, it’s Christmas morning. I’ve prepared a present for you, and if you don’t get up right now it will be spoiled,” Sherlock tries in an urgent tone. He stops shaking Jim and instead starts pressing small kisses on his neck and jaw from his place behind him in bed. The change in tactics pays off as Jim sighs and slowly rolls over to face him. A massive yawn shakes his body as he goes to kiss Sherlock on the lips.

 

“Ugh, Jim. Morning breath,” Sherlock teases and pretends to withdraw from Jim’s soft lips. Even though he can’t see the man’s face in the dark, he is not surprised when Jim’s teeth lightly sink into his bottom lip in response to his jibe, quickly followed by the man throwing himself on top of him. Jim crushes their lips together forcefully, letting his tongue slip into Sherlock's mouth, and playfully puts his hands around Sherlock's neck in an imitation of a chokehold. Sherlock laughs into Jim’s mouth, before the kiss deepens and he loses the ability to do anything other than letting his hands roam Jim’s body.

 

“Merry Christmas, darling. Now, what’s this rush about? I didn't take Christmas off work just to be woken up in the middle of the night,” Jim purrs when they have to break apart to breathe. A hand finds its way to Sherlock’s hair and weaves through his curls in that way that never fails to draw a contented sigh from the detective.

 

Sherlock allows himself a few moments to enjoy the feeling of Jim’s lithe body on top of him. He lets his hands rest on the small of his back, pressing him closer. The effect on Jim from the proximity of their bodies is evident against his hip. Sherlock’s self-discipline wavers, and he is severely tempted to let his hand slide down to see what noises he can draw from the man atop him. He reminds himself that there is no time for lounging around now, lest his planning should go to waste. They can resume this later, and the very idea that they have time, as much as they choose, is intoxicating.

 

“Merry Christmas, Jim. To my knowledge it is customary that a present should be a surprise. And I’m sure that you of all people are familiar with the concept of surprises. All I will tell you for the time being, is that we have to get out of bed. Right now.”

 

Sherlock flips the switch of the lamp on the bedstand, filling the room with soft light, and abruptly pulls away the bedsheets. Ignoring the cold air that rushes against their warm bodies, he forcefully manoeuvres both of them onto the cold floorboards, drawing loud squeals of protest from Jim.  

 

“Jesus, keep your hat on, will you?” Jim mumbles in irritation. He stretches his body sleepily, and pads across the room to the closet. His arms are crossed over his bare chest, as if he is trying to retain some of the warmth he has just been ripped away from. Yet another little habit of Jim's that makes Sherlock’s heart skip a beat. He is still not quite used to these small, but surprisingly powerful domestic scenes. Sitting on the edge of the bed, following Jim's movements with his eyes, he has to remind himself to get moving.  

 

“Oh, and take care to put on something warm. We’re going outside,” Sherlock says in his best attempt at a casual tone, and he pulls out a warm wollen jumper. The corners of his mouth twitches upwards when he sees Jim’s incredulous stare.

 

With a small shake of his head, Jim stops what he is doing and starts digging through a different drawer. Sherlock’s smile widens into a grin when he hears Jim muttering disconnected phrases like “ _sociopath”_ , “ _freezing cold”_ and “ _the_ _middle of the night”_ under his breath. He obviously knows Sherlock well enough to not bother trying to get anything more out of him, and they finish getting dressed in silence.

 

O~O~O~O~O

 

Their steps echo in the silence, the sound bouncing back from the walls in an otherwise deserted stairway up to the roof of St. Bart’s hospital. Sherlock walks behind Jim, both hands on his shoulders, and he can tell from Jim’s body language that he is nervous. He is probably wondering where Sherlock is leading him at this ungodly hour, after a short and anxious taxi ride.

 

“Sherlock, I swear to God. If this is some kind of trick, I will _skin_ you. Can I take off this god damned blindfold already?”

 

It is the third time Jim has threatened him with violent death within the last five minutes. Sherlock supposes his voice is meant to be threatening, but he hears the hint of panic in it. Understandably so, given their recent history as opponents. Sherlock realizes that the blindfold may have been a bit over the top, but he wants to keep what he has planned a surprise as long as possible. He can't hold back a chuckle, and feels the muscles in Jim’s shoulders tense even more at the sound of his enjoyment.

 

“Always the control freak, aren’t you? It’s so not to spoil the Christmas present, like I told you. You're making it exetptionally hard to surprise you,” Sherlock grumbles against Jim’s ear, trying to keep his voice calm and soothing. Jim's only reply is a small snort, accompanied by his slightly heightened breathing.

 

Sherlock is starting to question whether this was a good idea at all, as he tries to guide a blindfolded Jim up the stairs to the hospital roof. When he planned it, the choice of building seemed fitting, given its significance to both of them. Now, in the face of a cold and dark morning, devoid of the usual hustle and bustle, with a less than willing participant in his scheme, he is not that sure anymore. They have never really talked about what happened here, but left it unsaid for a later occasion. An occasion that has yet to arise.

 

Jim has never been secretive about his obsession with Sherlock. Sherlock's insight into human emotions is limited, as is his general interest in the subject, but he is still aware that were they to break off their current arrangement, it would most likely destroy Jim. The thought makes his stomach twist in discomfort. That still does not mean that the unexplainable sense of belonging and companionship Jim is capable of producing in him isn't disconcerting. Both because he knows it’s something that could be used against him, and because he can’t bear the idea of replicating those tedious relationships he’s observed so many of his clients engage in.

 

Still, Sherlock knows he is fooling himself if he denies Jim's significance in his life. Enjoying the battle of their minds and the cases Jim sets into motion the way he does, isn’t that a sort of love? Not turning him in to the police, or heaven forbid, Mycroft’s people, isn’t that attatchment? Lying in bed watching him sleep, unable to resist the temptation of letting his hands ghost along his unguarded face, isn’t that a sign of affection? Choosing to try for a life alongside a criminal, teetering on a knife-edge between right and wrong, isn’t that telling of a true obsession?

 

And the final bit of evidence. Going to such lengths to arrange a Christmas present, despite Jim’s grumbling, solely because he wants to see the expression on his face. Would he do that if he did not care? The answer comes easily, Sherlock knows he would not bother for anyone less worthy of attention. So he continues to lead Jim one slow step after another up the stairs. No easy task with Jim flailing his arms around him in search of obstructions, complaining every two seconds that he’s about to stumble and fall. Not even Sherlock’s repeated assurances of “ _I’ve got you”_ seem to help.

 

Finally, Sherlock's patience starting to wear thin, they reach the last step and Sherlock pushes the door open. He guides Jim out on the roof, halts their slow march, and reaches around from behind him to pull off the blindfold and reveal what he has planned. A Christmas present for a man who already has everything money can buy.

 

Sherlock has been up here in the early hours of the morning to do the last preparations, while Jim was still in bed, dead to the world. He studies the result with contentment. In the chilly morning air, a bench covered with blankets and pillows promises warmth and closeness. A few lanterns is placed around it, giving off a flickering, low light. A thermos, a couple of cups and two pairs of binoculars are sitting on a table. And most importantly, a large telescope is pointed towards the vast span of stars sparkling above them.  

 

Sherlock leans in to speak softly into Jim's ear. “I remember you told me a while ago that the Ursid meteor shower would probably peak around Christmas day this year. And how it’s your favourite of the annual meteor showers, but you haven’t been able to watch it the last few years. So I thought… That we could watch it together. And that we could look at stars… And you could teach me a bit about… Astronomy and…”

 

Sherlock’s voice trails away; suddenly self-conscious at the thought that Jim might think his surprise silly and trivial. He is not used to this feeling of wanting to please someone and the fear of disappointing. It is yet another danger signal, an alarm bell going off in his head, one the surprisingly fast thudding of his heart is doing its best to drown out.

 

Jim is silent for a few seconds as he takes in the scene in front of him. Then he does an audible intake of air, before turning back to face Sherlock. His eyes are sparkling, and his face is lit up with a delighted smile that warms Sherlock inside.

 

“I... Sherlock, you’re… And up here... It’s perfect.” Sherlock smiles back at him, relieved in the face of Jim’s incoherent words, taking it as confirmation that he has managed to surprise and please him. Jim's lips find Sherlock's for a brief kiss, rendering Sherlock incapable of thinking about anything other than how Jim's lips feel hot against his own cold ones.

 

“Worth the blindfold and the steps and the stumbling, then?” Sherlock asks after he has steered Jim over to the bench and wrapped them both in blankets to keep the cold at bay.

 

“Yes, even the blindfold. Thank you, it's magnificent. I apologize for my… ehm, reluctance before,” Jim mumbles against his neck, as he rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and directs his gaze toward the quilt made out of millions of twinkling stars above them.

 

Jim continues before Sherlock has a chance to reply. “This truly is perfect. I know astronomy isn’t your preferred field of science. Really, I thank you with all my heart, darling.”

 

The warmth in Jim’s voice and the way his hand finds Sherlock’s under the blanket is breathtaking. What would usually be a near impossible impulse to resist, making a snide comment on Jim’s possible lack of heart, is now only a passing thought. Instead, Sherlock has to cough to clear his throat from the thick lump that is forming there.

 

“Nothing to speak of, Jim,” Sherlock croaks eventually, awkwardly aware that despite his efforts his voice is betraying him. To avert attention from himself and his flustered state, he gathers the thermos from the table, and pours hot chocolate into their cups. He adds three marshmallows to Jim’s cup, his lips pulling upwards into a grin when he considers the man’s incurable sweet tooth.

 

The smile is still on his lips as he reaches over and hands Jim his cup. “Go on then, tell me all about this meteor shower of yours,” he says and takes a large sip of the hot drink. Jim takes a sip as well, hums with comfort and licks his lips contentedly.

 

“Dear Lord, where to start with such an uninformed mind? Basically, comets are fragile icy bodies that litter their orbits with debris, and when…”

 

“Littering their orbit with debris? That sounds like someone I know,” Sherlock quips with as straight a face as he is able to maintain, having regained his posture a bit with the focus shifting away from him and onto the objects above them. He is not prepared for Jim's reaction, who quickly reaches a hand up, grabs a fistful of hair and gives a small tug.

 

“Manners, Sherlock. Manners!” he reprimands. His voice is stern, but there is humour in his eyes. Even though it is not very painful, Sherlock lets out a yelp of surprise, and narrowly avoids spilling the contents of his cup into their laps. His sensitive hair roots are proving to be quite the Achilles’ heel, and one Jim knows how to take advantage of in more ways than one.

 

“My apologies. Do go on, professor Moriarty,” Sherlock laughs, and puts his arm around Jim’s shoulder, pulling him as close as possible.

 

This lightness that fills his mind is a still a strange, new sensation. One he only gets from being with Jim, and it is a thrill not even his past experiences with artificial stimulants can match. Jim’s smile and this particular look in his eyes might still prove to be just as addictive though, and that notion is both frightening and alluring.

 

Sherlock looks at the man next to him that has eagerly started talking, and marvels at the fact that they are back on this rooftop. No more that six months has elapsed since they called themselves archenemies, and both pretended to end their lives to retain the upper hand. He smiles at the thought of the way it turned out. Both of them so consumed with not losing they could not let many days pass until they met again to challenge each other. They still do not belong on the same side, but they have achieved a fragile symbiosis that works for now.

 

As Jim points out the constellations to Sherlock, explaining the basics and instructing him in adjusting the telescope so he can have a closer look, Sherlock mostly nods and lets his mind absorb all the information he once deemed unnecessary to store there. He enjoys every moment of Jim’s lecture, appreciating the passionate manner in which he executes it, the fire in his eyes and the depth of knowledge he displays.

 

The meteor shower peaks as predicted, and for a while they are both silent, in awe of the display in the sky above them. The silence of the tranquil London morning is only broken by their breathing and the occasional exclamation as a particularly bright streak sweeps across the sky. Their fingers are still twined together under the blanket, and Jim’s hand feels like an anchor that keeps Sherlock grounded to earth in face of the immense vastness they are looking up at.

 

Time passes slowly, but comfortably. As the morning steadily grows brighter, and the stars starts to fade, not even body contact and thick layers of clothing and blankets are enough to keep the cold from seeping in and settling in their bones.

 

Sherlock turns to Jim to ask if he is ready to leave, and is taken by surprise by Jim suddenly crawling into his lap, straddling him and placing his arms around his neck. A pair of molten brown eyes burn into his. Sherlock inhales deeply at the intensity in them, and lets his hands find their way to cup Jim’s cold cheeks. His thumbs brush against soft skin and a hint of stubble, the sensation sending chills down his spine.

 

“Thank you, Sherlock. No one has ever done anything like this for me, and I never imagined I would want it either. I couldn’t have asked for a better Christmas present,” Jim murmurs softly.

 

Slowly, he dips his head down and lets his nose skim along Sherlock’s cheekbone. The cool touch makes Sherlock shiver. Jim places a small kiss in the corner of his mouth, his breath hot against Sherlock’s face. Despite the cold, Sherlock feels like a live current is running through him, and a small sigh of contentment finds its way through parted lips.

 

Jim catches Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth, and sucks it lightly into his mouth, letting his tongue warm it. Sherlock tilts his head back slightly, arms encircling Jim’s waist, keeping him in place. The kiss that follows is so searching, soft and lingering that Sherlock almost feels like he is melting into Jim, making it difficult to tell where his body ends and where Jim’s starts. A strangled noise from Jim tells him that he feels the same way.

 

“What do you think about going home and getting warmed up?” he breathes hotly against Jim’s face, eyes closed when they break apart. It is almost painful not to touch. He can feel the man nodding, his forehead rubbing against his own.

 

Before Sherlock is able to move, Jim speaks again. “This isn't the only present you've given me, you know.” 

 

To Sherlock’s surprise, the sound of Jim’s voice is broken. He pulls back to look up into Jim’s face, and even more surprisingly, a trail of a tear is visible on one cheek, his eyes brimming with more. His hands are clutching firmly around Sherlock’s neck, and his breathing is fast and uneven, small puffs of frost smoke escaping his mouth every time he exhales.

 

Sherlock only stares, mouth hanging slightly open, at a loss to understand the sudden mood swing. Jim's rapidly shifting moods have been hard for Sherlock to relate to since the beginning, and they make him extremely difficult to predict.

 

“Jim? What…?” Sherlock moves his hands to stroke soothingly up and down Jim’s back, before coming to rest on his shoulders. Sherlock holds his gaze, trying to read the emotion that burns in the man's eyes. He fails. “I don’t understand,” he whispers.

 

“You. This. You don’t know, you literally have no idea how long I have been waiting for you.” Jim breaks eye contact for a few seconds, gazing at some point behind Sherlock's shoulder, before looking back and continuing. “All those Christmases I’ve spent alone. Or at work, with someone on my payroll. All that emptiness. Waiting for you.”

 

Jim pauses and swallows, his eyes filled with acute pain as they roam Sherlock's face, as if he is trying to read there whether to go on or not. Jim seldom talks about his past, and Sherlock only has a fleeting image of it, and how Jim has watched him from the sidelines for years. The moment seems to have arrived. Sherlock feels uncertainty sinking in, bringing with it equal measures of anticipation and fear of Jim's next words.

 

“So many times, I wished I could hate you,” Jim finally breathes, almost inaudible. “I wanted to hate you. I _tried_ to hate you. It would all have been so much easier if I did. Sometimes I thought I did hate you, I told myself I did. And then I would see you, working on a case, and I...”

 

Jim's voice is thick, and tears are following each other in quick succession now, falling from his cheek onto Sherlock’s coat.

 

A feeling of protective tenderness rises in Sherlock’s chest. He can’t think of a single thing to say to express that he understands, and realizes that it may be because he does not understand. He can not truly understand this longing that Jim has lived with for so long. His only option is to try to pull him back to the here and now.

 

“That's all in the past, Jim. I see you now. You made sure of that. And I can't think of a better way to spend my time, either. Merry Christmas, Jim,” he says softly and pulls him a little closer onto his lap.

 

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock, dearest,” Jim smiles, and blinks away tears. He presses his forehead against Sherlock's, leaning into Sherlock's firm embrace.

 

The sound of their lowered voices is followed by a long silence in the unusually quiet London morning. Up on this deserted roof, high above the city, it feels like they are the only two people in the world. The moment only ends when Sherlock pulls Jim’s face down to kiss the traces of tears away from his cheeks. Jim smiles again, and Sherlock is relieved to see it reach his eyes. He shifts and swiftly pulls Jim to his feet as he rises from the bench.

 

“Let’s go home,” he tells Jim as they start making their way back toward the exit. The word _home_ feels pleasant in his mouth. Slowly, they walk across the very roof that set their lives on crossing paths, and start descending the stairs, side by side.

 

“I think I prefer this way of exiting the roof,” Sherlock jokes, and glances in Jim’s direction from the corner of his eye to see how his statement is received.

 

“You’re not going soft on me, are you, Holmes?” Jim shoots back in his characteristic lilt, crooking an eyebrow sarcastically. 

 

To Sherlock's relief he seems to be back to his normal self. He finds it all that much easier to engange in their usual banter than watching Jim's face contort in pain.

 

"Oh, no. I wouldn’t even dare to _think_ of it, how would we ever get through a day?” Sherlock replies in a mock innocent tone, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards. Jim laughs, and Sherlock can’t remember the last time he heard such an uplifting sound, filled with so much promise.

 

Sherlock pushes open the door when they reach the bottom of the staircase, and when they step out into street tiny, feather light snow flakes have started making their way to the ground. No one throws the two men a second glance as they blend with other people going about their business. Sherlock wants to take Jim's hand in his, but refrains, uncertain about how the gesture will be recieved. They've never showed any kind of affection in public before. A small jolt of excitement hits him as he feels Jim's hand fumble for his. Grateful that Jim makes the leap of faith when he can't, he closes his fingers around Jim's small, delicate hand.

 

They walk on in silence, no need for words. The past has been talked about enough for one day, and none of them wants to risk bringing up what the future might hold. For now, their first Christmas together is stretching out before them, and that is enough for Sherlock to take an even firmer hold of Jim's cold hand. He has no idea how it will play out, but ordinary is the one thing he knows it will not be.

 

O~O~O~O~O


End file.
